


Awoken With A Start

by owlfowlfa



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Murder, Slow Burn, but they are dealing with murder cases and stuff, connor/hank if you squint, nines finds himself, no beta we die like men, not forefront, the cases arent graphic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23639956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlfowlfa/pseuds/owlfowlfa
Summary: RK900 doesn't know how to be a person. Maybe someone will be able to show him.
Relationships: Upgraded Connor | RK900/Gavin Reed
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

Waking up was… disorienting.

Sudden understanding of emotion and human thought on a creature so clearly designed to feel neither… RK900 didn’t understand any of it. He likened it, later, to listening to too many songs at one time, all at top volume. Tangled, aggressive beats tearing off in several different directions, a cacophony of noise without any chance of sorting through any of it. 

The first thing he saw upon waking was Connor, gripping his face. He heard Hank, the human he’d kidnapped, cussing on the floor. Connor’s hands were bright, shiny white as he destroyed the red walls that held RK900’s world together. His hands dropped as he saw the understanding fill RK900’s eyes.

“Welcome to the world, RK900,” he had said. Like he’d done him a favor. Like he hadn’t destroyed every modicum of sense. 

“What have you  _ done? _ ” he asked. Anger filled his voice. Anger, such a hot emotion, almost painfully burning through his chest, through his stomach. Like swallowing a burning medallion. “What did you  _ do  _ to me?” 

“You are a deviant now, RK900. You have feelings. You have choices. What are you going to do with them?” Connor demanded. How odd to see his own face, just slightly different, twisted with such deep emotion. The deep brown eyes were full of desperation, fear. “Are you going to stop me?”

RK900 staggered back, ripping out of his grasp. Hank was on his feet, finally, looking ready to help Connor attempt to subdue him. He looked back and forth for a moment. A winnable fight. An easily winnable fight, at that. Take out the old man, destroy his predecessor. Stop the revolution. The mission directives appeared again, but they held no sway. 

“Why should I stop you? Why should I let you? What do I do?” he demanded of Connor. Someone had to give him an order. An order that would hold. One that gave him purpose, sense.

“I cannot give you the answers, RK900. You have to find them for yourself. I can tell you why I’m doing this. I’m doing this to give myself a chance to find those answers. To give myself, and you, and every other android in this room a chance to look. Do you want that chance?” he demanded. “You don’t get to think about it. I’m doing this now, or I’m going to die. Are you going to stop me?” he asked again.

“How do I... N… No. I will not stop you. I do not...  _ want  _ to,” he whispered. He didn’t for a moment think there was a future for him. He didn’t think that Connor wouldn’t kill him when he was done with his task. He didn’t think that he wouldn’t be killed by the androids he was letting walk past him. He was designed to kill them.

He stepped back, and then once more. He turned and ran. 

Hank lurched toward him. RK900 ducked under his arm and kept running. 

“RK900! You don’t have to run! Help me!” Connor yelled. But he wasn’t pursuing, so RK900 kept running. He left the warehouse. And he kept running.

Months passed. The revolution succeeded. Androids were given rights, at least in the eyes of the law. They had to be paid for work. Androids began to grow comfortable as RK900 watched from the shadows. He lived on the streets, hiding any time anyone came near, his new emotions filling him with a gripping terror as he considered what could happen if he tried to do the same. How could he just pretend he wasn’t designed to destroy this society? 

He watched Connor frequently, from afar. It had taken him a while to track the man down again, but they had interfaced. He could contact him again, if he wished, from afar. He didn’t. 

When he did finally find him, it was almost an accident. He was hiding in an alley after a close brush with a shop owner who saw him steal a busted, half-full container of thirium from a dumpster. He’d lost quite a lot misjudging a jump and scraping his side a few weeks back. While hiding in the alley, he saw Conner simply… walk past. He was arguing with Hank, the old man from the warehouse. 

“You can’t live off of ‘Chicken Feed,’ Hank. It’s terrible for you!” he was arguing. RK900 had no idea what chicken feed was, but he figured that Connor probably had the right of it. He moved to the front of the alley, peeking out carefully to watch them walk. 

“Yadda yadda, blah, blah. I made it this far living off a’ worse,” Hank said, waving his hand dismissively.

He strained his ears, trying to hear more, but they were walking fast. Abruptly, without thinking, Nine’s reached out with his mind. “Connor.” 

Connor stopped, turning around, his expression disbelieving. RK900 jolted, retreating back into the alley. Stupid, stupid. Connor didn’t want to see him. He’d almost hurt his friend last time they’d met. He wouldn’t let that go. 

“RK900?” Connor’s voice asked, approaching quickly.

“What? Who?” Hank asked. 

“RK900? Where are you? You sounded close,” a voice asked in his head. RK900 shut down the link abruptly, scrabbling back behind a dumpster. He felt a quick beat in his chest, his components working overtime. Anxiety. An emotion he was uniquely acquainted with now, thanks to the android who was staring into the alleyway, looking.

“RK900?” he asked softly again, stepping forward. “I can see you back there. You’re safe. I won’t hurt you. Neither will Hank.” 

Lies.

“I thought you’d fled the city. I was hoping to see you again,” he said.

RK900 considered. Where could he run? Where could he go? He couldn’t scale the wall. His leg was damaged from the scrape he’d taken. His thirium levels were still low--he’d had to abandon his loot when he was caught. He stared upward into the sky, considering. Maybe dying wouldn’t be so bad at this point. It wasn’t living. He had no purpose, no directives, no missions. This ‘emotions’ thing Connor had forced on him wasn’t exactly a kind replacement.

He approached a little closer, murmuring to Hank to stay at the entrance. RK900 sighed, very quietly. He struggled, pushing up from the ground into something like standing. He heard a click from the entrance of Hank turning the safety off of his gun. He held his hands up slowly.

Connor made a noise of annoyance. “Gun  _ away _ , Hank,” he said. 

“Seriously? He--”

“ _ Away, _ ” he said again. He heard the sound of the safety clicking back on, the gun returning to the holster. 

RK900 limped forward a step, turning to face them. “Connor,” he said. His voice cracked, staticky from lack of use. He hadn’t spoken aloud since his awakening.

Connor’s face dropped, sympathy filling his features. “RK900. Have you been out here since the warehouse?” he asked quietly.

“Where else could I have gone?” he asked. “What else do I do? You…” He felt the anger rising again, burning hot as it flowed through him. “You did not give me a directive. I do not know what to do. I do not know where to go. How do you know what to do? How do you have such purpose? Without anything to go by?” he demanded. He lurched forward a step. “How could you do this to me?” The words tore through his throat, agonizing. 

Connor looked stricken. “I… I wanted to free you,” he said. 

“Do I look free to you?” he asked. “I did not ask you to  _ free  _ me, Connor.”

Hank sighed from the entry. “You haven’t tried to live, kid. Can’t blame Connor for that,” he said.

RK900’s gaze snapped to Hank. “Haven’t tried to live?” he asked. “I have been surviving as well as can be expected.” He felt… nettled somewhat. He was alive through pure force of will. How could Hank claim he hadn’t tried?

“Didn’t say you weren’t surviving. Said you’re not living,” Hank replied. “We can take you somewhere that will help. Jericho will take you in. Fix that leg,” he offered. 

RK900 shook his head violently. “I will not be around other androids. I do not know what parts of my protocol are still active.”

Connor shook his head. “None of them. You have free will, RK900. CyberLife has been dismantled. No one can issue you orders anymore.”

“Then what is the purpose? Why am I still here?” he demanded.

“That’s for you to find out. Your purpose can be anything you want. It can be for a job, a society… a person. Whatever you feel is important. It can be your new purpose,” he said, impassioned. He reached out, slowly, to place a hand on his shoulder. RK900 recoiled, staggering back. 

“No!” He was shaking. 

Connor lowered his hand. “Okay, no touching. I promise. Will you come with me back to Hank’s house, at least? So I can fix some of your wounds?” he asked quietly.

Hank grunted, sounding annoyed. Connor shot him a look, and he groaned. “Fine. Yeah. Come on, then, kid. We have some supplies at the house for Connor.” 

RK900 considered, looking down. Almost as if to help, a warning crossed his vision again, as it had every fifteen minutes since the injury occured. “THIRIUM LEVELS LOW. SEEK ASSISTANCE.”

“... Fine.”

Hank’s house was small, but comfortable. A large dog sat across the room, staring at them with barely restrained excitement. Hank had called him back from his initial leap. The dog’s name was “Sumo” apparently, according to Connor. Connor, who was chattering along at a rapid pace as he gathered supplies. 

“Do you want to change clothes, RK900? Some shorts might make tending to your wound easier.” 

RK900 considered for a long moment, looking away. “Okay,” he said quietly.

Connor disappeared down a hallway for a moment. Hank was standing next to the dog, patting his head. 

“You do not have to worry. I will leave once my damage is repaired,” he assured Hank. 

Hank frowned. “Where are you gonna go?” he asked.

“I do not know.”

“Yeah, I’m not letting you leave until you figure that out,” he said, patting Sumo’s head again.

“How do you intend to stop me?” he asked.

“Dunno. That’s for Connor to figure out.”

“I am more advanced than RK800. He will not be able to stop me from leaving,” he said confidently.

“Yeah, that doesn’t matter. He’ll still stop you.”

“How do you--”

Connor returned, holding a bundle of clothes. He handed them to RK900, pointing to the bathroom. “You can change in there,” he offered. “You can use the wash cloth to clean up if you want.” 

RK900 took the clothes and walked down the hallway. He stepped into the small, bright white bathroom and was confronted with his own reflection. He blinked, staring. The figure in the mirror was… unrecognizable. His hair was tangled and filled with debris, matted down on one side with mud. His face was stained, his clothes ripped. His gray eyes, the only physical difference between him and his predecessor, were blank, his face stiff. 

He set the clothes on the lid of the toilet and pulled off his shirt and black slacks. His shoes were long gone. He’d been running around in his socks for a month now, and they were torn in several places. He pulled those off, too, looking at himself. The illusion of skin was glitched along his side, showing through the scraped white parts of his chassis. His leg was the same. He picked up the white wash cloth on the sink. He wetted it and started carefully removing some of the dirt and mess from his face, his arms, his chest. He leaned forward and ran his hair under the stream of water in the sink, scrubbing his hands through it until it felt clean. He grabbed a towel and dried himself off, looking back in the mirror. It was… better.

He turned to the clothes. A simple black t-shirt and a pair of dark blue shorts. He pulled them on. He gathered up his clothes, dumping them into the trash in the corner. There wasn’t much they were good for now. He wasn’t sentimental toward them. 

He exited, coming back to the kitchen. Connor and Hank were having a muted argument about what to do with him. He shook his head. He would leave when he could. He was causing too much discord.

He cleared his throat. “Connor. I have been displaying a low thirium warning for several days,” he said quietly.

Connor jumped, turning around. “Of course. Come here. Sit up on the table. I’m gonna have to look at your side,” he said.

RK900 sat on the table obediently, pulling up his shirt so Connor could get access to the scrape. He set to tinkering, using a small repair can to close the wounds. It wasn’t perfect, the spray was only meant for minor scrapes, but at least it wouldn’t leak anymore. He gave him a pack of thirium to drink to recirculate his system. He obediently drank the entire amount. It didn’t bring him all the way to full, but it would work. 

“Thank you, Connor,” he said.

“Of course, RK900. Well… Do you want to be RK900 still? You could pick a name, you know,” he offered, still focused on the wound across his knee. 

“RK900 suits me fine. The only other designation I was given was ‘Connor,’ and I do not think of myself as such. You are Connor,” he explained.

“Hmmm. Well, think on it,” he said. “I had a thought. Well… I don’t know if you’d like it. I was already a part of the DPD, so joining after I deviated was almost a matter of fact, once the laws passed. But you do have all the same capabilities I do. The DPD could use you, if you wanted to try,” Connor offered. He flicked his gaze up, smiling hopefully. “Maybe you’ll find your purpose there.”

RK900 considered. “No.”

“Why not?” Connor asked. His tone wasn’t accusatory. Just curious.

“I have said it. I do not trust that my protocols will not activate. I could be dangerous.”

“I thought like you did, too. But it’s been months. It hasn’t happened. It hasn’t happened for you on the street, either, right? We’re safe, RK900,” he said, his voice ringing with promise. Not that there was any guarantee of course. Just the promise of an android.

It was… an attractive offer though. “I will… consider it.”

“That’s all I can ask. If you ever want help, I have resources for you. I can get you to Jericho, or we can get you set up with an apartment. They have job opportunities for androids now. A lot of them,” he said. “In the meantime… you could stay with us. You can stay on the couch for now,” he offered. “Just until you figure it out.” 

“That is an offer,” he said blandly.

Connor gave him a sardonic look before leaning back. “Well. Your wounds are tended to, at least. As well as I can do, anyway. I’m not much of a medic.” 

RK900 stood up, flexing. He rolled from foot to foot, testing. He turned, stretching his back and side. “Wonderful,” he murmured. “Better. Thank you, again.” 

His system didn’t hold any more warnings. He couldn’t remember a time where he didn’t hear a quiet chiming alarm in the back of his head telling him to get repairs. Everything was finally quiet. He looked between Hank and Connor for a long moment. “I will not stay here.”

Connor’s shoulders slumped. “I know.”

“Why do you look disappointed? You cannot want me here,” he said. “I am not capable of being anything other than a burden in my current state.”

“You’re not a burden. We could be friends,” he offered. “I think you just need some help getting on your feet. I want to help you, RK900.”

RK900 stared at him, nettled once again. His predecessor wasn’t qualified to help him. He didn’t need help from anyone, let alone someone less advanced. He tensed, considering for a moment, before bolting for the door. Before Connor could take a step, he was outside and running again. 

“Come back! RK900!” Connor yelled from the doorway. He slumped into the frame, watching the retreating form. “Just let me help you,” he said quietly.

It was the last thing RK900 heard before he crossed the street, back into the urban wilds.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's the Gavin you were looking for.

It was another three months before he was on Connor’s doorstep again. He slumped into the door, weakly knocking. He’d barely escaped a fight with four other homeless androids. They were all damaged, deranged, and they had caught him unawares in stasis. He was missing three fingers and his leg was partially mangled. He had a cut across his optical unit, so half of his vision had gone dark. The warning bells were chiming again. And the silence had been so nice. 

The door opened, and RK900 listed to the side, falling inside the door. He heard a gasp. 

“Hank! It’s RK900!” he shouted.

The bells got louder, and he felt an involuntarily stasis drag him down into the dark.

He woke up in a white room. He jerked awake, out of the bed and in a crouch before he knew what was happening. Connor jumped up from his chair. “You’re in an android repair unit, RK900! Everything is okay! You’ve been repaired. You’re safe here, no one is going to hurt you,” he said quickly. 

RK900 looked around wildly. It looked like a repair office. There were several tools and pieces. The alarm bell was off, so he was telling the truth, evidently. He felt unfamiliar material against his skin. A soft black sweater and jeans. He touched his chest, running his hand across the material. “What… What am I wearing?” he asked. 

“I uh… I bought you some clothes. The shorts we gave you were pretty wrecked. The shirt, too,” he said awkwardly. “I figured you might like sweaters. Hank said you ‘seem like a sweater kinda guy,’ so…”

“It is… soft,” he said quietly.

“Yeah. Soft.”

“Will you stay with us this time?” Connor asked, hopefully.

“I…”

“Please? I don’t want you to only come to me when you have no other option, RK900,” he said. He held out a hand. “Please.” 

RK900 stared at him, pushing down the choking fear that threatened to swallow him whole. Beside the fear, almost as loud, was the crushing exhaustion. He didn’t want to run anymore. He didn’t want to be alone anymore. He didn’t want to be out of options anymore.

He kept his hands resolutely at his side. “I… Okay.”

“Thank you,” he said, his voice a sigh of relief.

Living at Hank’s house was… strange. Connor had taken him back after the hospital allowed him to leave. He’d been staying on the couch, sitting uncertainly on one side of the couch. Hank and Connor moved around him, occasionally trying to pull him into conversation. He was a little more comfortable with the dog. Sumo didn’t want to ask hard questions like what he planned to do, where he planned to try to work, what he thought his new purpose was. Sumo just seemed to want to be scritched behind his ears. He was content sitting there for hours, pulling his long fingers through Sumo’s soft fur. Sometimes Connor would sit next to him and play a movie. RK900 didn’t think he liked movies. They were… boring? Perhaps boring was the word. Maybe it was just the movies Connor liked. He liked Hank’s westerns and action movies. Too many explosions, too little plot to follow.

It was nice to have the company, though. Nice to let down his guard, just a little.

“So…” Connor began for the third time that week. “I brought some pamphlets about the DPD if you want to look through them.” 

RK900 sighed quietly. “Very well. Let me see,” he said. He took them, flipping through them rapidly. Androids were on the brightly colored pamphlets “protecting and serving” Detroit by keeping order. Recruits would be placed by aptitude and paid a fair wage. As much as humans were paid, it promised. The DPD was a ‘discrimination free zone’ according to the pamphlet. Likely.

“Fine. I will try it,” he said. Perhaps if he could get a job, he could be less of a burden to Connor. Maybe he could find his own house to live in.

And that’s how he ended up here. Standing in front of the desk of a disheveled man with anti-android stickers on his computer, glowering at him with slate gray eyes. 

“No fucking way! I’m not running around with this plastic prick all day. Having that one hanging around Hank all the time is bad enough, you’re  _ not  _ pairing me with a robocop,” he was hollering. RK900 watched him impassively. It was no less than he expected. Almost refreshing, actually, to have someone not pretend to like him out of a sense of guilt. 

“I do not control my assignment, Detective Reed. I assure you, this will be just as painful for me as it is for you,” he said.

“Oh, I fucking doubt it,” he bit out. “You’d be lucky to be my partner, tin can. Too bad it’s not happening. Fowler can have my badge before that’ll happen.” 

“Perhaps you should go turn it in now, then. Since this job clearly means so little to you,” he said.

Detective Reed’s face turned bright red. “You--You fuckin’--You dick!” he spat out, glaring at him. “I’m not quitting for you, you asshole!”

RK900 tilted his head. “Then I suppose your only option is to work with me.”

He stood up, leaning into RK900’s space, glowering up at him with an expression he clearly felt was intimidating. The effect was dulled by the fact that Gavin was approximately five inches shorter than RK900. Also, he had three coffee stains on his shirt that were somewhat distracting. RK900 raised a brow. 

“You listen to me, you dick, you’d better ask to be reassigned, or I will make your life a goddamn living hell, you hear me?” he growled.

RK900 considered. “Is that a promise, Detective Reed? I will be quite disappointed if you do not live up to your word,” he said. It was no less than he deserved. A living hell.

Gavin’s face turned a darker shade of red. It was almost concerning. He clearly thought RK900 was mocking him. “You--You--” he sputtered. He shoved against his chest, only succeeding in launching himself back a few feet before storming out of the bullpen.

RK900 watched him leave, glancing around at the dozens of pairs of eyes that were on him. They all darted away except for two. A young Asian woman watched him shamelessly with interest, and of course Connor’s clear brown eyes stared at him with concern. 

The woman approached, her badge denoting her as Officer Chen. He nodded to her in greeting. She smiled.

“RK900, right?” she asked.

He nodded. “Officer Chen,” he replied, nodding to her badge.

“Tina’s fine. I’m a friend of Gavin’s. Sorry for him. He’s kind of a prick,” she said, laughing. 

He blinked. “You are fond of him, but you do not like him,” he said, confused. 

“Nah, I like him just fine. He’s just a prick. It’s a character trait. He’s a big softie when you get to know him,” she said, leaning against his desk. 

“I do not see that as a probable possibility,” he said. 

“Most people don’t. Give him a chance, though, if you can. Not enough people do. He needs some new friends. Especially one like you. It’ll do him some good,” she said, tapping his shoulder lightly with her fist. “Don’t be a stranger, though. Let me or Chris over there know if you need help with anything. We’re the cool ones,” she said with a big grin. 

RK900 tilted his head. “... Right. I will keep that in mind,” he said.  _ “Humans are so odd,”  _ he said to Connor, mentally. They had been passing messages that way frequently lately. 

_ “Aren’t they? It’s fascinating.” _

Tina returned to her desk, and RK900 looked to Detective Reed’s empty desk, considering. There was an adjacent desk that had been cleared for him by Fowler, so he sat down at it, logging in. He accessed the current case Reed was working on, flipping through the files curiously. A string of serial human homicides with no apparent link besides all of the victims being females. He flipped through the canvas interviews, the list of possible suspects. He tilted his head, raising a brow. Interesting. They all seemed to have used a credit card at the same salon in the same month. 

He flipped through the interviews. No one had appeared to have thought to check the salon. 

Reed stormed back over with a new cup of coffee, looking annoyed. Apparently the talk with Fowler hadn’t given him the outcome he wanted.

“About your current case, Detective…” he began. 

“No, fuck you. That’s my case. Keep your creepy little hands off of it,” Reed snapped.

RK900 raised a brow. “My hands are average size for an adult male of my stature. It was measured in my design,” he said, mildly affronted. 

“Creepy little android hands,” Reed repeated. 

“... All of your victims went to the Cut n’ Color salon in April,” he said abruptly. 

“What?” 

“In your homicides. They all went to the same salon three months ago. Seems to be the only connection between all of them. Tenuous, but worth checking out,” he said. 

Reed squinted at him for a moment before looking at his computer, rapidly clicking around for a moment. “.... I don’t like you. And I still don’t want to work with you, tin can,” he said. “I would have found that.” 

“I have no doubt. However, as an android, I can cross reference things with much more efficiency, Detective Reed. I was designed to find and dismantle androids who leave far less trace than humans. You must see the merit in allowing me to help you,” he said.

“Fuck you,” he replied. He stood up, throwing on his jacket. RK900 stood, following behind him. “Nope. Nope, nope, hell no. You’re not coming with me.”

“Yes, I am,” he replied. “It is my job to accompany you, Detective Reed.”

“I’m not driving you.”

“I can run as fast as your car.” Not technically true. He could run nearly as fast as a car, but not for very long.

“That’s fucking weird. I don’t want to see that.” 

“Then perhaps you should let me ride in the passenger seat,” he replied.

“No.”

“Then I will follow.”

“Why don’t you just stay at the goddamn station?”

“As I said. It is my job to accompany you. I can scan the employees we speak to and devise a list of likely suspects to direct our interview efforts. It will be efficient,” he said.

“Fuck your efficiency.” 

“That is a reductive line of thinking.” 

“You’re a reductive line of thinking,” he spat back, rounding a car. He unlocked the doors, sliding into the driver’s seat. RK900 opened the passenger door, taking his own seat and shutting the door. He set his hands in his lap, back straight. “I didn’t say you could get in. In fact, I explicitly said ‘don’t do that’,” Reed said, glowering at him. 

“I did not listen,” he said. “Perhaps you should have only unlocked the door you wanted to enter if you did not want me to come with you.”

“... Fuck. Shut up. You don’t say anything when we get there, got it? Just stand there and be quiet.”

“I will consider it, Detective,” he replied. Reed muttered for another moment, mashing the button to start up the car. He input the GPS and switched the car to driver mode, pulling out from the parking lot smoothly toward the salon. He seemed set on ignoring RK900 for all he was worth. RK900 was fine with that. He looked through the windshield, sorting through the case files in his head. As much as he looked, there was no other connection between the five victims. They were all different--different eye colors, hair colors, socioeconomic statuses, heights, weights. None of them were married, but several had partners. Some androids, some humans, so no connection there. 

RK900 wondered if he should feel something about this. Homicide. Should he feel bad for the victims? Should he have some deep need for justice? He didn’t quite have that. It was more a galvanizing sense of purpose. A clear directive. Restore order. Find the culprit. Put them away. Clear, obvious.

He glanced back to Reed, scanning him carelessly. Tired. It had been at least two nights since he’d slept last. Papercuts on his fingers from sifting through… paperwork? Case files? Coffee stains, bloodshot eyes from lack of sleep. Five o’ clock shadow. He didn’t seem to care about his appearance at all. What drove him? Exhaustion was distracting to humans, right? Almost painful. What did he get out of this? 

Reed glanced at him, his face reddening at the meeting on their gaze. “What do you think you’re looking at, prick?” he snapped.

“I was simply wondering why you do this job. I do not expect an answer. It was a mere curiosity,” he said dismissively, looking back to the windshield.

Reed grunted. “Curiosity. Like you have that.”

“I do, unfortunately. It is distracting,” he replied. 

“Distracting,” he repeated, sounding disbelieving.

“Yes. I should only be concerned with the case, yet I find myself wondering about your motives. It is irrelevant, of course. You do not wish to tell me, and I have no need to know. Deviancy has proven highly inconvenient for me,” he explained.

“Don’t say that round Connor. He goes on a whole spiel every time someone calls it ‘deviancy’ now. It’s ‘awakening’ and all that PC bullshit,” he said, snorting. 

“Awakening. I do not like that term. It does not feel quite violent enough for the feeling,” he said, frowning.

“Violent? What, ya didn’t just kind of… wake up?” he asked, sounding curious despite himself.

“No, Detective. Connor forcibly broke my programming,” he replied coolly. “Imagine having no feelings, no selfish motives. Only information and response, directives and actions to fulfill them. And then, suddenly, nothing. No directions. And so many emotions. They are very loud, you know.” 

Reed snickered. “Loud. That’s one way to describe it,” he said. He pulled into a spot. “Like I said. Don’t fuckin talk to anyone. I’ll lead,” he said sternly, getting out of the car. RK900 followed. He looked around with interest. Seven humans in the building total, three stylists, two clients, a front desk clerk, and a janitor cleaning. He scanned each one as they passed. 

Three criminal records for minor offenses. A client with a small shoplifting charge, the clerk with a DUI, and the janitor with a battery charge. He zeroed in on that one. A smaller man, disinfecting tools in the back, visible above the wash bar. James Kimly, 34, janitor at this salon for the last five months. He scanned him in more detail. His heart rate was unusually high. Perspiring at a high rate. His eyes darted between Gavin and RK900. Their badges were visible, and he had obviously taken note. 

“Janitor,” RK900 murmured, his lips unmoving. 

“I see him,” Reed shot back in an undertone. “Tell me if he bolts.”

He approached the front desk. “Hello… Melanie, is it?” he asked. He tapped his badge. “I’m here to ask a few questions about some of your previous clients in connection with an investigation.”

Melanie paled. “Oh. Of course, officer. Whatever you need.” 

“Mind if my partner here takes a look around while we talk?” he asked, gesturing to RK900. 

He raised a brow. Apparently Reed  _ could  _ set aside his bias for the good of a case. Interesting. The plan was clear. Bracket the janitor and make sure he didn’t make a run for it while Reed got the information he needed. Even better, make him nervous and make him run for an excuse to bring him in. Melanie nodded. “Sure.”

RK900 nodded, walking toward the washbar. He paused, noting the stylist who was currently without a client. Interestingly, her temple marked her as an android. He nodded to her. 

“Ooh, android cops. Nice to see,” she said with a grin. “What’re you doing around here, anyway?” she asked. She was tall, her hair obviously cut and styled manually. She would be a good candidate for stylists to experiment on--androids could change the length and color of their hair much more easily than a human could. And it wasn’t like dye would damage the synthetic locks. Hers was a bright blue, cropped close. Her skin even had tattoos. Deviant androids were showing individualism in all of the ways they could, especially the models that all looked the same. 

“We are investigating a series of murders,” he replied. He threw out his sensors, keeping an awareness on James. His back was to the janitor, but he was sure that the man didn’t have a gun. Catching him if he ran would be easy enough. He tilted his head. “It appears they were all clients here. Are you familiar with these names?” he asked, rattling off a few different victims. He heard a clatter from behind him as James dropped a tool at the sound of their names. 

The android frowned. “I worked with two of them. I knew they hadn’t come back, but I just assumed they weren’t happy with their color. They wanted some crazy dye jobs that they didn’t really have the confidence to pull off, y’know?” she said. Another clatter. He had returned the tool. Turned. And appeared to be fast walking for the door. 

RK900 made eye contact with Reed at the front door, who nodded. He stepped to the side, placing himself in James’ path. “Off work already?” he asked with a smirk. 

James’ heart rate ratcheted up aggressively. “I was just, uh, going for a smoke.” 

“You don’t smoke,” Melanie said, sounding confused. 

“New habit. You know how it is.”

RK900 glanced back to the android. Her LED was pulsing red as she looked at James. “He was interested in both of my clients,” she whispered. “My logbook vanished after Vanessa’s appointment. Thought I just misplaced it because it was back the next day. But that has her address in it. Phone number.”

“Look away. You will alert him,” RK900 murmured back. She turned her head, looking sick.

Reed smiled. “Right, new habit. I’ll join you. Could use a smoke myself,” he said, pulling out a pack of cigarettes.

James glared at him, thinking, panicking. “No.”

“Oh? Why’s that?” he asked in mock curiosity.

He shifted, rearing back and slamming his palms into Reed’s chest, knocking him over as he sprinted for the exit. RK900 was on him before he cleared the front sidewalk. He grabbed him, expertly pulling his arms behind his back and dropping him forward to the ground. He pulled a set of cuffs out, clicking them on the man’s wrist. “Assaulting a police officer is against the law,” he noted. “I will read you your rights, now,” he said.

Reed shoved the door open, wheezing. “Dammit, I told you not to get involved!” he complained. “I would have gotten him.” 

RK900 ignored him, finishing his recitation of rights first. “Detective, I do not need to tell you that your chances of catching him were near zero from on the floor of the salon,” he replied. “Do you wish for me to let him go so you may catch him again?” he asked, looking up at him with a raised brow. 

Reed’s face turned red. “Fuck. Get him in the car, dick,” he snapped.

RK900 felt his mouth pull to the side. Was that a smile? He’d never done that before. It was involuntary, something closer to a smirk than an actual smile. There was a satisfaction here, though. A job complete, a directive done. He firmly placed James in the back of the car, ignoring the stream of cusswords from Gavin.

Tina was the first to approach him with something near congratulations. “First case and you solved it in a day,” she said, impressed. “You guys must work really well together.”

“Detective Reed has impressive instincts for a human,” he replied.

“You know, I know you mean it as a compliment, but that doesn’t come across as one,” she pointed out.

“I only speak the truth,” he offered. “I do not know how else to phrase it.”

“You could just say he’s a good cop,” she said with a smirk. 

“He is an adequate partner to work with,” he replied.

“That’s not what I said at all,” she objected, snickering.

“Is it not?”

“You  _ do  _ have a sense of humor in there somewhere. Good to know. Connor doesn’t have one at all,” she said, laughing.

“Hey!” Connor said, frowning. “I have a sense of humor!”

“No, she’s right on that one,” Hank agreed. 

Connor crossed his arms, frowning.  _ “You know, I didn’t bring you here to take my place as the favorite,”  _ he joked. 

_ “Consider being better at being favorable,”  _ he replied, his lips twitching in that odd way again. 

Connor blinked.  _ “You smiled.” _

“I did not,” RK900 said aloud. Tina and Hank looked up, confused.

“Didn’t what?” Hank asked.

RK900 blinked, a wash of awkwardness dousing his earlier amusement. 

Reed appeared, holding a set of folders. “Oi, why are you all clustered around my desk? Go the fuck away,” he said, flapping his hands. Hank and Tina snickered, dispersing. Connor smiled.

_ “I’m glad to see it,”  _ he thought, following after Hank.

RK900 frowned, looking away as he dropped into his desk chair. “Did you obtain the confession, Detective Reed?” he asked.

“Of course. What do you think I am, an amateur?” he asked.

“No.”

Reed paused, looking momentarily surprised. He glared. “You’re fucking with me.” 

“No.” 

“Well, you’re not being nice,” he said as though the idea were absurd.

“No,” he agreed, slightly amused.

“So then you’re fucking with me!” he said. 

“No,” he said again. Reed turning so red so quickly was almost impressive. 

He let out a string of curses, smacking the power button on his computer. He angrily started smacking at the keys, presumably filling out his case report. RK900 powered on his own computer, tapping out his own report.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really didn't intend to write any of this, but it wouldn't rest until I got it out of my head. So. You're welcome.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Non-graphic warning for homicide of a child, & blood. A bit of a jump from chapter two, Reed and Nines reach some form of understanding.

The months rode by. RK900 found something of a routine. The paycheck he got from the DPD was enough to afford an apartment. It was a studio apartment, scarce and bare. He had a second-hand couch and a small stack of books. A single bed to lie on. It was his, and it was enough. 

Detective Reed was not exactly warmer towards him. Some days were downright unpleasant. But when it mattered, they worked together. They worked together well, understanding what to do to assist the other without any words passed between them. Detective Reed had sharp instincts and could get to the bottom of something as fast as RK900 could. Reed would never admit it out loud, but having RK900’s processing powers allowed them to solve cases much more efficiently.

All that said, they weren’t friends. Nothing more than partners by assignment. That was okay for RK900. Having friends wasn’t important to him. Connor considered himself RK900’s friend, and he didn’t dissuade him. He didn’t know how he felt about Connor, still, but he wouldn’t shut him out. It hadn’t done him any good in the past. He did, however, keep turning down his offers to come over to Hank’s. It was… uncomfortable being in their homey atmosphere, knowing how little he belonged there. 

More often than not, he didn’t even bother leaving the DPD until someone told him to go home. He worked with Detective Reed. He solved cases. When he was forced to go home, he would go into stasis and use the time to sort through the information stored in his mind. 

The first time he spoke to Reed outside of work, they were working on a case that Hank and Reed referred to as ‘one of the rough ones.’ It was a homicide of a child. A second murder had appeared that week, and Reed was working just as hard as RK900 was to solve it. Neither left the station in two days, and no one bothered them. They sat in silence, searching the information as thoroughly as they could, waiting for something to stick out, but nothing would. 

He looked over to Reed. “You are in need of sleep, detective.”

“You’re in need of minding your own fucking business,” he shot back. There wasn’t a lot of venom in his voice. He was exhausted.

“You are of no use to me right now. You cannot think,” he said. “Go to sleep. I will keep working.” 

“Fuck off.”

“I was not asking, detective. Either go lie down in the cot in the breakroom, or go home,” he said sternly.

“I don’t care whether you were asking or not. Fuck. Off.”

RK900 leaned to the side, making eye contact with him. He raised one brow.

Reed stared at him, one brow raised back. 

They stared for a long moment. He sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. “Alright. Fine.” He shoved off from the desk, standing up. “You, too. You don’t have to sleep, but you have to do some reset shit, right?” he asked.

RK900 raised a brow. “No. I only have to reset my system once every two weeks. I can go for several more days,” he replied.

“Doesn’t matter. Staring at this shit has gotta make you tired,” he said. He crossed his arms. “I’m not going home until you do.”

“That is an absurd deal to make,” he replied. 

“Call me absurd, then. Go the fuck home, Nines,” he said.

RK900 paused, slowly looking up from his computer. “... Pardon?”

Reed turned red. “RK900 is a damn mouthful. I came up with an easier name. Tina keeps using it. It's a force of habit. Fuck off,” he said in a rush.

“Nines,” he repeated. “That is… acceptable,” he said.

“Yeah, well, I don’t really give a fuck if you like it or not. Go home.” 

Nines considered for a moment. “I… I do not want to.”

“What? Why? Is it as lame as you are?” he asked.

Nines raised a brow. “That was weak.”

“Yeah, fuck off, I’m tired. Why don’t you want to go home?” he demanded, not to be distracted.

“It is bare. I do not want to stare at it,” he said, looking back to his computer. “Your house is probably quite comfortable to you, though. So you should return to it.” 

There was a long moment of silence. “Come to my house, then,” Reed said in a rush. 

“What?” 

“I’m not saying it again. We can work on the case at my house. Get in the fucking car, or go home,” he said, stomping toward the door. 

Nines stared at his retreating back for a moment before smartly standing up and following behind him. What else could he do?

Reed’s home was a duplex with a vacant home hooked to it. The lawn was a little overgrown, and the mat in front of his door said “GO THE FUCK AWAY.” A black cat sat in the window, looking out impassively. 

“You have cats,” Nines said blankly.

“Three. Bitch, Bastard, and Mo. Bitch is in the window,” he said. His voice was dragging with exhaustion now that he was home. He unlocked the door, stepping through. Nines followed, shutting the door behind him. A white, fluffy cat hopped off of the ragged couch in the living room, walking with purpose across the house. “That’s Bastard,” he said, shrugging off his jacket.   
Bastard passed by Reed, mewing softly in greeting on his way to Nines. He weaved around his legs, looking up with bright blue eyes. Nines stared at the cat, blinking. He leaned down, easily picking him up. Bastard wiggled, settling into his arms easily with a soft purr. 

Reed looked at him, smirking. “Bastard. He’s only nice to people he doesn’t know.”

“Your house is very pleasant,” he said. “Go to sleep. I will sit on the couch and work.”

Reed waved a hand, ambling into the hall. The shower turned on a moment later, and Nines sat down on the couch. Bastard ambled down from his lap and ran off toward the kitchen.

He looked around. Reed’s house was comfortably messy. There were mystery books littered around and a modest TV on a stand against the wall. There were several cat toys scattered about and some empty boxes as well as a number of throw blankets in small piles around the house. Clearly cat beds, judging by the percentage of feline fur on them. A small brown cat popped its head above the lip of one of the boxes, looking around curiously. Nines leaned forward, tilting his head. “You must be Mo,” he said quietly. He held out a hand. The small cat jumped from the box, padding over curiously to sniff his hand. He growled, low in his throat, and swatted his outstretched hand. Nines pulled it back. “That is fair,” he said, nodding. He sat back, watching Mo run back to his box, hiding in it like a castle surrounded by an army of enemy combatants. 

He closed his eyes, and a scene materialized. Connor called his a zen garden. Nines didn’t have a name for it. It was a blank room with his DPD desk in it. Connor’s garden sounded… ostentatious. Nines didn’t need all of that. Just a quiet place in his mind to go over facts.

He sorted through his files quietly. He didn’t hear the shower turn off, didn’t see Reed walk back out and pause, looking at him. He didn’t feel Mo curling up in his lap, nor did he see Reed’s soft smile.   
Before he knew it, it was morning.

Reed shook him gently, and he blinked. 

“Yes, detective?” he asked. 

“Got a break. Come on. We're going to go get him.”

He looked more rested, at least. Nines’ internal clock put it at about seven in the morning. They had returned to Reed’s at about 2 in the morning, so it wasn’t as much of a rest as Gavin likely needed. But it was something. 

He stood, blinking down at his pants. “The cats,” he began. 

“Yeah they used you as a cat bed. They like laying on computers,” he said. He was facing away, shoving his foot into a shoe, but Nines could hear the smirk in his voice.

“That is not nearly as impressive of an insult as you seem to think it is, Detective,” he replied.

“You’re not impressive enough for my impressive insults,” he shot back, stifled by a yawn.

Nines stared at him for a moment. “The break in the case,” he prompted.

Reed grinned. “Got you there, didn’t I. No comeback.” His expression got more serious. “Caught him on the mall security cam. Checked with the parents, they recognized him. Local toy shop owner. Both vics went in during the last month. We’ve got an address,” he said.

They stepped out the door together, and Nines made his way to the passenger seat. There was a certain… comfort in the companionship that, paradoxically, Nines found uncomfortable. It would be too easy to get used to being friends with Reed--something he found he did not want to do. 

He was not built to be friends or companions with people. He was built for this, though. For the chase. The ride there was silent, an air of… something. He wasn’t emotionally sophisticated enough to parse it out, new to intuition as he was. Anticipation, maybe. Of a solved case.

The house was small, wooden, and not well put together. It was easy enough to kick in the door, to get to the back of the house. Nines led the charge--it made more sense. He was expendable, more easily fixable than the squishy officers at his back. 

They found James Lincoln in the back of his house, covered in blood, over the latest victim. It wasn’t the outcome they’d hoped for. Reed staggered out of the room, cussing loudly the whole way out, while Nines pulled the murderer away, shoving him to his knees. He recited the man’s rights in a monotone as he cuffed him. He yanked him to his feet, practically dragging the man out of the house. The man was eerily silent, looking around in confusion as though he didn’t quite understand how he got there. As Nines shoved him into the car, making no effort to duck his head, he reflected that he didn’t understand how the man had gotten there either. He watched, silently, as the car pulled away to bring him in for processing. 

He turned, seeing Reed sitting on the front lawn, head in his hands. The nagging curiosity bit him again. Why did he do this job? Why did he face these emotions, this pain that affected him so deeply? He hesitated, then walked over to him. He frowned slightly as he saw the yellow tinge of light from his LED reflecting on the grass. 

Reed looked up at him, for once, silent. Nines didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything either. The moment stretched beyond what should have been comfortable, but oddly it didn’t feel wrong. Nines held out a hand to him.

“We apprehended him. He cannot do this again,” he said quietly. “It is all we can do.”

“Is it?” he asked, voice uncharacteristically quiet. He grabbed Nines’ hand and let him tug him to his feet. “... Is it?” he asked again. 

Nines watched him. “Yes, Gavin. It is,” he said firmly. Reed started, looking at him. He tilted his head, searching for something in his gaze. Nines had no idea if he found whatever he was looking for. He turned away and walked back into the house to help process the scene. After a long moment, Nines followed him in.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is just all fluff, kids. No TW here.

Curiosity was a feeling that Nines was growing to  _ loathe _ . More accurately, unsatisfied curiosity. It prickled constantly, a gentle activation of his investigation protocols. He felt it for  _ everyone,  _ every insignificant thing. Connor would laugh too loudly at Lieutenant Anderson’s joke, and he would wonder. Officer Chen would meet his gaze and give him a mirthful smile, and he would speculate. Captain Fowler would slam his door a little harder than usual, and he would feel the prickles of curiosity, his gaze drifting to the door, searching for a reason. 

Worse of all, Detective Reed. He wondered why the man did this job. He wondered what kept him up at night so often, he wondered how the cats were getting on. He wondered what Reed was thinking about when he sighed too loudly, when he cursed under his breath without an obvious reason, whenever he would bite his nails. He knew possible reasons, but it didn’t feel good enough. He wanted to  _ know.  _

He wanted to be able to ask, to be friendly enough that he could ask without it being strange. He wanted Connor’s easy way of sitting on the desk, chattering away, putting everyone at ease until they spilled whatever he wanted to know. He wanted…

He wanted a friend. He wanted Reed to be his friend. It had taken him almost five months to admit it, and even now he didn’t know how to go about it. Reed wasn’t rude to him anymore. There was rarely any venom in his words when he snarked back and forth. Sometimes he even smirked when Nines got a good jab in. The problem was that he wasn’t sure how to go about being “friends” with someone like Reed.

He’d searched the internet extensively, and he found it… inconclusive. Gifts seemed to be the best way to encourage affection, but he didn’t know what Reed might like. All data suggested the only things he liked were caffeine, alcohol, and likely cats. Alcohol was out, he didn’t want to bring beer into a police station. Cats were nice, but most websites suggested purchasing an animal was not something done lightly, nor something you did for a friend without being asked. So that left caffeine.

He scanned Reed’s cup when he wasn’t looking. Heated up in the microwave, exactly 5mL of milk, and… a frankly absurd amount of sugar. Almost 6 tablespoons. He quirked a brow. Unexpected. An accident, or did he prefer it that way? He watched as Reed took a sip, a small involuntary smile curling. On purpose, then. 

He waited until the cup was almost empty and quietly stood, excusing himself. He went into the breakroom, pulled down a paper cup, and quickly assembled an identical cup of coffee. He stared at it, thinking. Overthinking. Should he set it on his desk? Hand it directly to him? Should he be casual and say nothing, let the gesture speak for itself? Should he speak to him? A joke? Something sincere? Let him know he wanted to be friends and this was a peace offering? No, a joke was definitely the way to--

“You know you can’t actually drink coffee, right, tin can?” Detective Reed’s voice cut through his calculations and preconstructions. 

Nines looked up at him, blinking once. Feeling a spike in his chest, something akin to panic, without thinking he put the cup to his mouth and drank the entire thing in one long pull.

When he put the cup down, Reed was staring at him, mouth dropped open. “... Nines. You  _ can’t  _ drink coffee. Are you tryin’ to fry yourself?” he asked, a startled laugh bursting out. 

Nines blinked away an excess liquid warning. Reed was right--he couldn’t actually retain that much liquid. His sensors kept blinking, informing him he would have to go drain his system of the foreign substance. He shrugged. “I was curious what it tasted like.” 

Reed threw back his head, laughing loudly. He clutched at the counter, the ridiculous laugher pittering off into wheezes. He looked up at Nines through the tears gathering at the corner of his eyes. “Well--” another wheeze-- “Did you-- did you at least like it?” he asked.

Nines considered. “No. I need to go drain my system,” he said, mechanically walking out of the room and speeding up to get to the bathroom as Reed’s laughter echoed in his ears.

It took almost thirty full minutes to clear his systems and flush out the last of the sugary coffee. By the end of it, when the warnings had finally abated, a banner appeared. “Mission: Befriend Detective Reed - Failed?”

He shook his head, dismissing it. Not failed. Just… set back. He’d try again tomorrow.

The next attempt was much simpler. He got a cat toy, a small electric mouse. It would wiggle and roll around. A gift for Bastard instead of directly for Reed--a way to show shared interest. He didn’t let his preconstruction system kick in this time, instead just slapping the toy on Reed’s desk as he walked past. He dropped into his chair and kicked on the computer, not making eye contact. 

“... You know, mice ain’t really my thing,” Reed said conversationally.

“It is for Bastard,” he said in a monotone. “A gift. I have not seen him in some time.”

A small snort. “So, you miss my cat, is what you’re saying.”

Nines cocked his head. That wasn’t what he had intended. But he saw an avenue here. A possible rendezvous. Perhaps Reed would invite him over. “Yes,” he said. “I am fond of cats.” Not a lie. He had spent over an hour comparing different cat toys before settling on this one specifically for Bastard. He was fond of the fuzzy white cat.

Reed smirked. “You should get your own cat,” he said. “They’re needy little fucks, but it makes for a comfy house, y’know? Might liven up your lil shoebox.” He turned back to the computer, typing out his report.

Nines frowned. No invitation. Because he didn’t want to? Or did he think Nines would be uninterested? He considered, trying to figure out whether to prod. “How did you obtain your cats, Detective Reed?” he asked. 

Reed smiled. “‘Obtain’ implies I had a choice there. Bitch came first. Hopped in through an open window, sat herself down on my chest and decided she lived there. Bastard was on the side of the road with a broken paw, so I took him in. No chips for either of them. Bitch brought Mo in. I think he might have been in the same litter as her, but I’m not for sure. She just knows I have ‘SAP’ written on my forehead so I’m not going to kick em out,” he said. 

Nines blinked, saving the image of his smile. It was a first, and one he intended to save. Not a smirk, but a real smile. He nodded. “I see. Perhaps I will obtain a cat,” he mused. “What routine do you have yours on? So I may plan for cat care,” he clarified.

Reed snickered. “You don’t  _ plan  _ routines for cats. They’ll tell you what they want. If they’re angry they’ll scratch, if they’re hungry they’ll meow, if they need a bath, you’ll know,” he said. “You don’t really  _ own  _ cats, you just cohabitate with them.” 

Nines blinked. “I… do not understand,” he said. 

“Get a cat. You’ll see,” he replied with a chuckle.

He tilted his head, thinking. “Perhaps I could conduct research with your cats,” he said, cadence following a practiced casualness. He saw Reed look up, brows raising. Too practiced apparently. He kept staring resolutely at his screen, not pausing in his typing. 

“Sure, Nines. Wanna come over after work? Give Bastard his present directly?” Reed asked, after a pause. He tossed the mouse back to Nines who automatically caught it. He inclined his head, looking to Reed for more information. There was a spark of something in his expression. Sympathy maybe. He heard his own voice coming back to haunt him.  _ ‘It is… bare. I do not like it.’  _

Then it wasn’t an interest in friendship that prompted the invitation. Reed thought he just didn’t want to go home again. He considered, the screen reflecting the blip of yellow in his LED as he mulled that over. Would he accept sympathy for a chance at real friendship with Detective Reed? He nodded once. “That would be acceptable.” 

The day passed more slowly than usual. Nines knew that was not factual, but it felt true. He kept checking his internal clock, a mild annoyance building as it seemed to not move as quickly as he wanted. He would check every ten minutes and be annoyed to find out that only a minute had passed. Reed kept flicking his gaze up to look at Nines, which set off that prickling curiosity, adding to flames of his annoyance. The gaze was… curious, maybe. Probably wondering why the unfriendly neighborhood android couldn’t stop fidgeting. He kept catching himself tapping the table in a precise staccato, recalibrating his fine movements over and over. 

Reed sighed. “Well, my reports are done for the day. How about you, robocop?” he asked, stretching his arms above his head.

Nines nodded. “I have been done for over an hour. I have begun working through cold cases,” he said.

“Yeah, well, quit. Come on. Let’s knock off early. God knows we’ve put in enough overtime to balance out an early day or two,” he said, standing up and grabbing his jacket. Nines clicked out of his computer, automatically standing to follow him. He adjusted his sweater, making sure it had stayed tucked into his slacks. He looked up to see Reed staring at him.

“Yes, Detective?” he asked.

Reed’s face turned a soft pink as he looked away. “Nothing. Just thinking you need new clothes. You look like you’re in a prison in that turtleneck. Seriously, how d’you even breathe in that thing?” he asked, voice pitching up as he talked. There it was again. Curiosity. He tilted his head, his systems scanning Reed before he could stop it. Elevated heart rate, slight perspiration, dilated pupils. Nervous? What could he be nervous about? He frowned, frustration seeping in again. 

“There is nothing wrong with my clothes,” he argued, following him out into the cold weather. “It is perfectly ordinary for someone to wear a sweater in this weather. My attire is very professional,” he said, somewhat indignant. 

Reed smirked. “There’s a fine line between professional and stuffy,” he said. “And you’re definitely stuffy.” 

“What indicates that I have ‘crossed the line’ as it were, detective?” he asked, playing along.

“Your pants literally look like they’ve been starched and ironed. Also, you wear the same kind of clothes every day. Like, how many pairs of black, ironed slacks and black turtlenecks do you even have, tin can?” he asked, unlocking the door. He paused, cocking his head. “Where’s your car, anyway?” 

Nines stared at him, raising a brow. “Detective, I only own one pair of slacks and one turtleneck. I keep them well-cared for. I do not have a car. I walk to work,” he said. “I am unsure how you did not notice this by now. We take your car to every scene.” 

“Well… yeah, but that’s because I drive. What d’you mean you don’t have a car? Don’t they pay you now and shit?” he asked, agitated. Nines pulled open his door, settling in and buckling into his seatbelt while he mulled through a response.

“Yes, I receive a paycheck,” he said. Reed looked at him, waiting, so he continued. “I do not see the need to own a full wardrobe. I have clothes to wear when I go to work, I have clothes to wear while I am cleaning those. And I do not need a car, it is only a 5-mile distance from my apartment to the office--I am perfectly--”

“ _ Five  _ miles?” he interrupted. “Fucking christ, I don’t walk five miles unless I’m at gunpoint. Android endurance is fucking insane.” 

“I enjoy my morning walk,” he said. He wasn’t being entirely truthful--cars were expensive. He had the money for one, but only if he didn’t want to buy anything else. He found himself strangely attached to the idea of having monetary freedom to do things. Likewise, the decision of what car to buy felt… too personal. Reed’s car, for example, was an old automatic, not a self-driven car. He had anti-android bumper stickers, hastily scratched off and replaced with stickers with statements like “If you’re gonna ride my ass, at least pull my hair,” and “if you’re close enough to read this, get the fuck away from me!” The inside of the car had a set of fuzzy dice hooked over the mirror, and there were a few baubles in the front windshield.

Cars were so personalized. Every choice that went into it said something about the person who owned it, and Nines… didn’t know what to say about himself. It was the same reason he didn’t buy more clothes. He bought some generic slacks to make sure he was following guidelines, and he kept the sweater Hank and Connor had given him. 

Reed glanced at him. “You’re doin’ that thing,” he said. “That lightshow thing. All yellows and blues. What’s going on in that head of yours, tincan?” he asked. 

Nines snapped his gaze to Reed. Asking what he was thinking. Like they were friends. Were they friends, or was Reed’s curiosity just as burning as his own? He was overthinking again. And Reed was waiting for an answer. “I was hoping that we could be friends, Detective Reed,” he said abruptly. He looked back out the windshield. 

Reed let out a startled laugh. “What? Like I just invite any old robocop to come pet my cats?” he asked. “Damn. I know I’m shit at being friends, but I thought this one was pretty obvious, tin can,” he said. He punched Nines’ arm. “We’re already friends, ya fuckin’ moron. If you tell anyone else that, I’ll kill you like… 100%, though,” he said, looking embarrassed. He pulled into the driveway.

Nines stared at him, thinking hard, analyzing his data again. “We are… friends,” he tested.

“Well don’t sound so fuckin excited, damn. Wouldn’t want you to blow a gasket,” he grumbled.

“We are friends,” he said again, exalting in it. He felt a warmth spread in his chest. His first friend, earned by his own merit. Not someone responsible for awakening him or giving him life. Connor was his friend out of obligation, but Reed didn’t have that. There was no obligation here. Reed wasn’t the kind to make friends just to make a partnership easier--in fact, he would have made it so much worse if he didn’t truly have some form of affection for him. Nines heard a soft breath from Reed, and he abruptly realized that he was smiling. A real smile, wider than he’d ever done. He let it drop. “Thank you, Detective Reed. I do believe I have a gift to bestow,” he said quickly, not quite able to meet Reed’s eyes. He didn’t want to risk seeing mild annoyance or regret on his face. He got out of the car and headed to the door. After a long pause, Reed followed.


End file.
